


To Boldly Go. Or Come. Whichever.

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, Gratuitous Star Trek References, M/M, Makeup Sex, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: A conversation after make-up sex.





	To Boldly Go. Or Come. Whichever.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 551: "fight"

"Your elbow's jabbing me in the ribs, Chief." Jim's voice is a throaty murmur, relaxed and satisfied-sounding, and not giving Blair even the slightest sense of urgency about the subject.

"Can't move," Blair mumbles, mendaciously. Only partly mendaciously, true, since the futon really isn't big enough for both of them. If he moves from his current position (mostly draped across Jim's chest so they're lying there nearly face to face — or maybe 'plastered across' would be a better phrase, sweaty as they both are and sticky with drying semen), he'll probably roll himself right off of Jim and onto the floor. 

More to the point, his muscles are out for the count. Muscles, bones, mental processes: all have assumed corpse position and are now, metaphorically speaking, levitating peacefully somewhere a couple of feet above Blair's body, like they occasionally do when he's finishing up a really intense yoga session.

Still… with an effort that takes entirely too _much_ effort, he manages to shift his elbow a couple of inches, and is rewarded with a "Mmm," in thanks, from Jim, and a slightly sinister creak of the bed-frame from the futon.

"What were we fighting about, anyway?" He's still mumbling, this time mostly into Jim's shoulder, and he doesn't really expect an answer. He doesn't really care if he gets one, for that matter; it's just that everything before walking into the loft is temporarily lost in a serious post-orgasmic haze, and, hey, research is what he does. Part of what he does.

"Hell if I know," Jim answers, still sounding so relaxed he's possibly achieved some corpse position levitation himself.

"Must've been…" Blair mutters, and trails off. He'd been about to say "something big," since you don't have make-up sex with the intensity of the sex they just had over a minor argument about forgetting to buy milk for their morning coffee; it takes a knock-down, drag-out, World Series-level _fight._

"Must've been you acting like a suicidal idiot," Jim says, and he's not murmuring now. He's not a relaxed, furnace-emulating slab of solidly sculpted muscles underneath Blair's body anymore, either; he hasn't moved any of those muscles, but Blair can feel the sudden tension practically vibrating from them.

Oh, crap. Jim's words and the tension in his body bring the whole afternoon flooding back into Blair's memory, far too vividly. Blair sighs, feeling the last floating remnants of his post-sex bliss come crashing back down into his body and brain like a ton of (completely unblissful) bricks. "Me and my big mouth," Blair says to himself.

Which of course Jim hears, even though it was hardly even a whisper of sound. "That was part of the problem, yeah," Jim says, and that was pure snark, and really, seriously, _crap._

Blair sighs again. "Can't we do this later? If you're not done fighting about it?" 

Jim takes in a deep, slow breath and holds it briefly, then exhales. The tension doesn't leave his body, but it eases back just a little bit. "As long as you agree that you made a bad situation worse, could've gotten yourself killed, and agree to keep your mouth shut if anything like that happens again."

"Whoa, wait," Blair says, as the last of the feel-good make-up sex vibes ride off decisively into the sunset, chased away by the (kind of terrifying) memory of the seriously volatile and yeah, seriously bad situation he'd gotten himself trapped in. Trapped in by chance, which apparently made no difference to Jim's level of pissed-off-beyond-reason. Trapped in, as in finding himself in the hands of the completely conscienceless (and brutally short-tempered) head honchos of the drug-dealing organization MC had been chasing for weeks. 

Yes, he'd tried to bullshit his (seriously volatile, seriously bad, seriously _scary)_ hosts. Of course he'd tried to bullshit them — he would've preferred to run like hell, sure, but since he was tied with plastic zip-ties to a concrete post in an otherwise deserted warehouse, bullshit was all he had. So he'd talked. A lot. Which his hosts hadn't seemed to appreciate very much. 

He hadn't known rescue was only fifteen minutes away (a rescue that was courtesy of Sneaks, who had somehow happened to be in just the right place at just the right time to catch what had gone down, and who was totally going to blow through Blair's shoe budget for the next three years at this rate). But even if he'd known, he still probably wouldn't have shut up. Nervous, defiant, and alternately conciliatory and insult-heavy babbling could serve as an excellent distraction, right? Maybe buy some time. It had worked before.

"Wait," he says again, because no way is Jim winning this argument. Still, he has to swallow before he can go on. "What about Lash? You said I did everything right when he… You meant that, right?" He has to swallow again, and the arm that Jim's got lying across his back tightens a little. "I didn't keep my mouth shut then."

"No, you didn't, and yeah, I meant it," Jim says. The snark is completely gone, and the quality of the tension in his body and his voice has changed. "You did what I needed you to do to stay alive so I could get you out of there." It's his turn to sigh, and his arm tightens a little more across Blair's back. "You scared the fuck out of me today, Chief. Sometimes you're going to make things worse, though, running your mouth; you need to realize that. You're not always going to win that way. Just… pay attention. Back off if it starts to go south on you, all right? Not that you can't talk the hind legs off a donkey, but sometimes you need to shut up instead."

It’s pretty much a flag of truce, and when Jim adds, "Although I don't think it's ever been proven that you _can_ shut up…" Blair rolls his eyes and whacks him one on the side of his chest.

Jim chuckles. 

The futon doesn't. One of the legs at the foot of the bed gives way with a sharp crack, and suddenly they're all going down, him and Jim and the futon, almost in slow-motion, and Jim is still chuckling and rolling with the fall so that Blair stays on top of him. 

For a few moments all is silence except for the now slightly wheezy-sounding chuckling coming from Jim. Blair disengages Jim's hand from the back of his head — Jim and his protective instincts; not that Blair is in the mood to complain about that right now — and angles his head to get a better view of the disaster. 

_Ouch._ "It's dead, Jim," he says, flatly, and Jim breaks into a belly laugh.

"You think so, Bones?" Jim says, when he eases back on the laughing. "What clued you in?"

Blair smacks him again on his ribcage — it's not like the _floor_ was compromised by the fervor of their make-up sex, after all; not enough that a gentle back-hand whack is going to cause it to collapse, anyway. "If you say anything about the 'final frontier,' or 'where no man has gone before,' I'm moving out."

"You're asking too much there, Chief," Jim says, grinning, "considering that we just broke a bed, not to mention that the wall by the door and the table in the living room aren't ever going to be the same again." He shifts, taking Blair with him so that they're both lying on their sides, face to face, on the rug beside the remains of the futon. "Anyway, you're the one who made me watch 'The Enemy Within' last week. Wouldn't have been my call; I wanted to watch a Bonanza rerun."

Blair narrows his eyes. "You enjoyed it."

Jim shrugs, totally not fooling Blair in the least. "The popcorn was decent. And the blow-job you gave me afterwards wasn't bad."

"'Not bad'? Bullshit," Blair says, manfully resisting the temptation to whap Jim yet again and settling for glaring at him instead.

"You should know," Jim says, and just like that they're not talking about blow-your-mind make-up sex or a much more casual, but still absolutely high-quality (Jim's talking out of his ass) post- _Star Trek_ blow-job anymore.

"Hey," Blair says, and leans in to kiss that raw look from Jim's face — he's okay, they're okay, and _Jim_ needs to be okay. None of which is bullshit.

It's meant to be a quick kiss — reassurance, affirmation, something like that — but Jim isn't on the same page and turns the kiss into something almost as fierce and desperate as the way he'd captured Blair's mouth when they first walked into the loft this evening.

Well, after he'd grabbed Blair's shoulders and shoved him against the wall, that is. 

Blair's cock twitches, but it's a sorry effort and clearly not going anywhere. That doesn't keep him from panting a little when they finally break apart from the kiss, panting and _wanting —_ which, okay, Jim's panting, too. And closing his eyes, and saying, "Chief," like his whole heart is in that one syllable, and that's…

That's way too much to deal with right now, even though it makes the (really shitty) scene with the drug dealers, the (pretty epic) fight with Jim, and the (actually kind of cool, considering) broken bed worth it.

Okay, yeah, it makes pretty much everything — everything _ever —_ worth it. "Maybe we should move this upstairs," Blair offers after a moment, and if he has to clear his throat first, it's to keep the words in; the words that are caught there but are ready and waiting all the same, the words he (undoubtedly) said more than once while they were having sex, the words it's (probably) too soon to say out loud when they're _not_ having sex, considering how new this sex-and-possibly-more thing between them still is. 

Jim exhales a long, slow breath, and the corner of his mouth quirks up just a little. "Maybe we should shower first," he counters, and Blair really can't argue with that.

He kind of wishes he could, though. Argue vigorously. Passionately. And really, really annoyingly.

After all, at least based on the empirical data he's collected so far, the make-up sex — even if it only achieved a fraction of the intensity of this evening's example — would be _spectacular._


End file.
